Something Good (13 page)

M
ax couldn't believe his daughter was a thief. He just couldn't take it in. When Jane had phoned, a ridiculous part of him had clung on to the hope that she was joking. Then Jane had blurted it all out—about the woman whom Hannah had seen trying on earrings really being store security. How this woman had stopped her in the street and led her back through the shop to a little back room.

He couldn't understand why she'd done it. Had she desperately wanted those things—a lighter, for God's sake—or stolen them just for the thrill?

“Max, honey?” Veronica cut into his thoughts. He'd been painting the skirting board in her study, trying to calm his racing thoughts while she tapped on her keyboard. Although it still involved painting, Max was grateful for a change of scene from his own house.

“Hmm?” he said.

“Come here, have a look. There's a stunning ski collection and it's all thirty per cent off.” Max had surmised that the January sales were more enticing than Christmas to Veronica. While Christmas Day had been okay—Hannah had joined him, Veronica and her kids after lunch—there'd been something missing. It hadn't helped, of course, that he'd had to give Hannah a stern talking to about shoplifting. On Christmas Day, of all days. Not that there was ever a good time to deal with stuff like that.

Max rested the brush on the paint can and peered at the screen over Veronica's shoulder. Salopettes, jackets and something called a combi set—did she really think he'd be kitting himself out in proper skiing gear? “I thought I'd wear my jeans,” he said.

Veronica chuckled. “You
are
joking, Max. Jeans aren't suitable for snow. You'll get soaked and freezing. What you need is—”

“Listen.” Max rested a hand on her arm. “I'm not buying new stuff. The holiday's costing enough, okay? My head's full of the shop at the moment. If premises come up I want to put in an offer without worrying about—”

“It's only
clothes,
Max. Buying a cute little beanie hat will hardly bankrupt you.”

“I don't want a cute little beanie hat!”

With a dismissive shake of her head, she clicked onto a page depicting ‘base layers'—they looked like long johns to Max—and something called ‘buffs.' Loosely resembling balaclavas, they were pattered with snowflakes and psychedelic swirls. Max knew, with absolute certainty, that he didn't require a buff.

“Well,” Veronica teased him, “you can be an old scruff-monkey on the slopes. I'm treating myself to a few bits and bobs. What d'you think of these jackets, honey—shall I go for the lilac or baby blue?”

Max blinked at the images of skiers whipping down slopes. He'd felt warm and cosy, quietly painting in the corner. Now his entire body had chilled. “You choose,” he said dully.

Veronica tore her eyes away from the screen and frowned at him. “You are silly, Max. These are real bargains. Kit yourself out and you'll actually be
saving
money.”

He looked at her, expecting to detect a glimmer of irony. Her smile was pure, uncomplicated. Perhaps, he reasoned, uncomplicated was what he needed at this stage of his life. Someone who didn't rate his daughter's shoplifting spree as particularly significant, because there were more crucial matters to consider—like base layers.

Was he really making such a sacrifice by agreeing to go on this holiday when, clearly, it mattered so much to Veronica? “Maybe,” he said, peering at her PC, “I'll order those socks with the spandex bit at the instep.”

The smile illuminated her face. “Pervert,” she whispered back.

“Y
ou're going
where?
” Zoë spluttered.

“Scotland,” Hannah said. “At least, some island in Scotland. Some teeny little place no one's heard of.”

“Bloody hell.” Zoë was struggling through a tray of Prêt à Manger sushi, which Hannah suspected she'd chosen for effect and not because she particularly relished raw fish. “Half term as well,” Zoë added. “Waste of a school holiday, getting dragged off to the middle of nowhere. What is there to do?”

Hannah shrugged. “Nothing much, according to Mum. The house where we're staying looks really posh. Apart from that it's just sheep and mountains and stuff.”

“Ugh,” Zoë said, shuddering. “You could've stayed with me, if I wasn't being farmed out to God knows who while Mum and your dad go skiing. Don't know why me and Dyl can't stay at home by ourselves. It's not like we're kids….”

“Where are you going to stay?” Hannah asked.

Zoë peeled off the fish and popped a lump of sticky rice into her mouth. “Not sure yet. Mum's desperately ringing round her friends but no one's that keen to have me.” She giggled.

“Where's Dylan going?”

“Oh, he'll be fine. He's staying with one of his mates. They can sit up all night drawing their horrible weirdo comic strips.”

“I didn't know he did that,” Hannah said.

“He tries.” Zoë licked her fingers and shut the lid of her sushi box.

“Don't you mind not going skiing?”

“I'm used to it. Mum's never taken me. Anyway, I wouldn't want to get between the loved-up couple.”

The chocolate brownie felt like sawdust in Hannah's throat. She hadn't told Zoë about being caught shoplifting; she'd have felt idiotic, as if she'd somehow let her down by failing to follow her instructions properly. She hadn't even told Ollie during their snogging sessions at his flat on Monday evenings. They didn't seem to talk as much as they used to. Kissing or talking: it seemed there wasn't room for both.

“I can't believe you're going,” Zoë declared suddenly, “without kicking up a fuss. You're fifteen, for God's sake. She's treating you like a baby.”

Hannah scrunched the cellophane wrapper from her brownie. Although three weeks had passed since police station day, which she could hardly bring herself to think about, she was in no position to be difficult. In acquiring a reprimand she'd kissed goodbye to any bargaining power. “Actually,” she murmured, “it might be a laugh.”

“What, being stuck on a miserable island with no shops?”

“There'll be
some
shops.”

“Yeah,” Zoë sniggered, “like a Gap and Zara? What do they wear up there anyway?”

“Same as us, I suppose,” Hannah said.

“I thought they wore kilts.”

“That's just for special occasions, idiot.” God, Zoë really knew nothing. Although Hannah was hardly a seasoned traveler, she'd been all over Britain with her mum or dad to various holiday cottages. She doubted if Zoë even knew where Scotland was.

“Tell you what,” Zoë announced. “I could come, too.
Then
it'd be fun.”

Hannah sniggered. The idea was ridiculous: Zoë plonked on an island God knows how many hundred miles from her hairdresser, and Jane agreeing to take her in the first place. “You're mad,” she said.

“How long are you going for?”

“Five days I think.”

“That's not so bad. Mum wouldn't have to stress out trying to find some place to dump me.” There was a catch in Zoë's voice, and her eyes gleamed.
She does mind,
Hannah thought, as Zoë pretended to fiddle with the strap of her shoe.
She hates being left behind when her mum goes away. She thinks nobody cares.
“I'm not sure Mum would go for it,” she murmured.

“Why not? Doesn't she like me?”

“Yes but—”

“I'll keep you company. Mum'll pay part of the petrol and food and my share of staying in that posh house. It'll be great, Han. Go on—ask her if I can come. Tell her I'm about to be abandoned by my uncaring mother and have nowhere to go. Say I'm practically
homeless
.” Zoë managed a hollow laugh.

Hannah wanted to fling her arms around her and pull her close. She couldn't help admiring Zoë's knack of twisting the facts so the maddest thing—stealing a plastic doll's head, spending half term on some bleak, remote island—seemed like absolutely the right thing to do. Hannah looked at the face that still looked sunny and golden, even in January. She had to admit, the prospect of Zoë tagging along made the trip seem a little less awful.

“She'll let me come, won't she?” Zoë asked, pushing the glass door open. “We'll be stuck on an island with sod all to do. It's not as if we can get into any trouble.”

“A
re we nearly there yet?”

Jane gripped the steering wheel and tried to shut off her ears. Zoë had fired this question several times and they'd only just passed the turnoff for Hemel Hempstead. Weren't kids meant to grow out of asking such brain-jarring questions at around seven years old?

Hannah, who was installed beside Zoë in the backseat, was on charming form. Her urgent requirement for the loo had coincided with their joining the M1, so they'd already had to make a service station stop.

“So, are we?” Zoë asked.

“A few hours to go yet,” Jane said.

“How many miles?”

“Hundreds. Thousands. It'll take us
weeks.
”

Zoë groaned. This wasn't the deal, thought Jane: this perpetual whining when they'd been on the road for an hour and a half. Had Zoë forgotten her impassioned speech when she'd begged to come?
Please, Jane, Mum's going to France and I've got nowhere to go. I'll be no trouble at all.

Nancy, with arms firmly folded in the passenger seat, was crunching a licorice ball. It cracked noisily; Jane feared for her mother's teeth. Nancy's contribution to motoring pleasure had been the paper bag of boiled sweets, a flask of watery coffee and a package of ham sandwiches tightly wrapped in wrinkled foil. “Find out if there's space for me at that Hope House,” she'd demanded.

“You're not interested in stained glass,” Jane had protested. “You don't even call it stained glass. You call it my window business.”

Nancy had chuckled and said, “It's the dry stone walling I'm keen on. It's a skill I've always wanted to learn.” Jane had pointed out that there was little call for dry stone walling in Muswell Hill, but Nancy had insisted, adding that she'd take care of the cooking, which was done on a rota system at Hope House. So here they were: Jane, Hannah, Zoë and Nancy. Only four people, yet the car felt stiflingly overcrowded.

“Why's it all talking on the radio?” Zoë asked.

“It's a
play,
” Nancy snapped. “Just listen to it and enjoy it.”

Jane glimpsed Zoë's morose expression in the rearview mirror. Nancy had already assumed the role of Radio Boss and had twiddled the ancient dial, muttering to herself, finally settling on Radio 4. The play wasn't convincing. The actors sounded as if they were desperate to fling down their scripts and be normal. “This is boring,” Zoë declared. “Can't you put on a CD?”

“No,” Jane snapped.

“Our car doesn't have a CD player,” Hannah retorted. “There was a tape player but it chewed up Mum's tape and broke.”

“Oh,” Zoë said flatly. “When are we stopping?”

“I was hoping to get past Manchester,” Jane said, trying to keep her voice level, “then we'll have lunch.”

Zoë slumped into silence, clearly finding Manchester's location as mysterious and unfathomable as planet Neptune. Several minutes passed. Nancy offered around licorice balls, but no one wanted any. Hannah was staring through the window at the lifeless sky.

Jane reminded herself that they weren't undertaking this journey for the hell of it—not just to make everyone miserable and have to endure Nancy's endless crunching—but because she'd meet Archie Snail, and learn from him, which would change her entire approach to her work. Nancy would throw herself into her course, and the girls…well, they could do whatever the heck they wanted. They could grumble from dawn to dusk and Jane couldn't give a flying fig.

It was dark by the time they reached the concrete block of a hotel that squatted bleakly at the side of the motorway. They'd already had one vile service station meal, and now they'd be faced with another. In the restaurant Jane eyed the sausages that lay like coiled snakes. Nancy, who had filled up on her own sandwiches, retorted, “The speed you drive, Jane, it'll take us six months to get there. I'm sure we could have done the journey in a day.”

“I've been driving for nine hours,” Jane muttered. As they sat at the table she studied the map. Such a rugged coastline. Islands like pastry crumbs fallen off the edge of a pie. It hardly seemed possible that people actually lived on them.

Later, in the hotel room, she stared through the gloom at the other single bed. Her mother was muttering in her sleep. The room was sparsely furnished; basic accommodation for people passing through. The radiator whined and grunted. She slipped out of bed and peered though the small window. Outside a rectangular pool glimmered beneath silvery streetlamps. Nancy, annoyed that her offerings hadn't been fully appreciated, had tipped the remaining ham sandwiches into the water. Jane watched them floating, a scattering of Hovis rafts.

 

The ferry departure point turned out not to be the bustling port that Jane had imagined, but a prefab hut manned by a gruff-looking man behind a glass partition. “We're booked on the eleven-fifteen,” Jane said, rummaging through her bag for the e-mailed confirmation. The man took the printout from her and pulled in his lips. “Is there a problem?” she asked.

“Not with your booking,” came the surprisingly soft voice. “But with the weather. Last ferry was canceled. And this one…” He shrugged, as if it might or might not be sailing, depending on a whim.

Jane glanced through the open door where wind was whipping up litter. “When will you know?” she asked.

The man shrugged again. “Hard to tell.”

Hannah was shivering, forcing her arms up opposite sleeves of her sweater. They'd left Nancy in the car. After complaining that her hotel mattress had felt like a ruddy blancmange, she'd fallen into a heavy sleep with her mouth lolling open for the remaining journey.

Zoë was tapping at her phone by a revolving stand, which held a few dog-eared ferry timetables. “Can't get a signal,” she announced.

“There's no signal here,” said the man behind his partition.

“What about on the island?” she asked.

“Not a chance.”

“So where
can
I get a signal?”

“Fort William,” the man said with a chuckle.

“Oh,” she said softly. “I just wanted to tell Mum we're nearly there.”

Your mum's on her way to France,
Jane thought.
She won't be thinking about you.
She glanced at Zoë's feet, which were prettily encased in turquoise wedge sandals. Why hadn't Veronica suggested that Zoë brought winter clothing? She saw it then: determination flickering across her perfectly made-up face as she thrust her cell back into her bag.

A girl trying to be brave, a million miles from a Prêt à Manger, and even farther from her mother's consideration.

 

Sunshine broke through, as the ferry docked at the island, and Hope House seemed to sparkle. Jane drove along the gravel driveway, which bisected an undulating lawn. The lawn, she realized now, was more of a meadow and clearly hadn't been mown for several years. And the house—she was close enough to see clearly now—wasn't quite as it had appeared on the website. Its stone facade was badly crumbling. A porcelain washbasin lay on its side in the long grass, and behind grimy windows there appeared only darkness. “It looks perfectly fine,” Nancy announced, as if reading her thoughts. “Won't be spending much time here anyway, will we?”

“What
will
we be doing?” Zoë piped up.

“Jane and I will be doing our courses,” Nancy replied. “You and Hannah can go for long, bracing walks.”

“Oh,” Zoë said weakly.

“I'm sure it's lovely inside,” Jane added. In fact, as she pulled up on the graveled arc in front of the house, she decided she preferred it this way. Crumbling and unintimidating. She wasn't sure how she'd have conducted herself in some grand stately home.

Leaving Zoë and Hannah staring sullenly through the windows, she and Nancy stepped out of the car. “It's quite a place,” Nancy said.

“Yes, Mum, it is.” Jane inhaled crisp, cold air. Turrets soared upward, spearing downy white clouds. It's full of secrets, she thought. That, and promise.